“I’m going with her. Someone needs to stay by Georgia’s side,” Elizabeth said, thankfully interrupting my exchange with Tinsley. We all watched as Elizabeth rushed off, hurrying to follow the EMS workers as they all hastily bundled into the ambulance.

From here, I could see Georgia lying flat on the stretcher with an oxygen mask covering half her face. What the hell had I been thinking? She’d be okay … right?!

“Mom…” Bri held an outstretched arm toward Elizabeth. She looked strangely desperate and childlike lying there, clumsy drunken fingers reaching for her mother.

Then she looked over at me, dropped her arm to her side, and burped. Wow. I didn’t have ‘blubbering alcoholic’ on Bri’s bingo card, but there was always room for surprises.

“I didn’t know she was allergic,” I lied, looking back and forth from Tinsley to Rosalee, then over to Bri. “There must have been some sort of mistake, something overlooked…”

“You can say that again,” Tinsley snapped.

As the ambulance peeled away, sirens flickering in the dark, I turned toward the staff standing steely on the front porch. They had dropped the whole service act; one of the waiters was crying and another was comforting her. Delfina was the only one who seemed to be holding it together.

When she caught my eye, she shook her head from side to side. “I didn’t know she was allergic. No one told me. If we had known about the allergy, I never would have served that lemon and coconut cake.”

“It’s not your fault,” I said. “It’s mine. Let’s go inside. I’ll help you clean up and discuss the menu for tomorrow.” I bounded up the steps, eager to get away from Tinsley and Rosalee’s accusatory looks.

Once inside, I led Delfina and the waiters back down the long, dark hallway once again.

“It’s not your fault,” I repeated. “The meal was lovely. I didn’t know about the allergy either, but I am totally to blame. I’m sure that Georgia will be just fine. They’ll probably give her some steroids or epinephrine, and she’ll back to as good as new by morning.”

“I hope so,” Delfina said, a touch of anger in her voice as she moved to clear away the remnants of our long-forgotten feast. She started gathering up the dishes, one by one, loading them into the crook of her arm.

“Go get the others,” she snapped at one of the waiters who was standing in the wings, looking lost and distraught.

I started helping by carrying plates and bowls back to the kitchen. On one plate, a generous helping of king cake remained. It reminded me of Tinsley’s stupid warning—the whole suspicious thing about eating the dessert outside of carnival season. She was so ridiculous and strange; I never did understand how Rosalee tolerated living with her for all those years.